


Grey in His Hair

by robolock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Love, M/M, Masturbation, Older Sherlock, Retirementlock, Younger John, but sherlock is still a soft bab, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3153941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robolock/pseuds/robolock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So now Sherlock had Sussex, and a cottage with a fireplace. He had grey in his hair. He had tedious cases by email and the occasional interesting case a train ride away. And Sherlock had bees. It was alright. It wasn't as awful as it could have been.</p><p>Or: Older Sherlock falls in love with the hot young army doctor next door and they bone. </p><p>(additional tags as they come up)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey in His Hair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinklock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinklock/gifts).



> So the lovely [kinklock](http://kinklock.tumblr.com) posted this AU [in a list of AUs that don't get enough love](http://kinklock.tumblr.com/post/106616028290/whats-your-favourite-sherlock-au-that-doesnt-get) , and it wouldn't let me go. So consider this my first foray into the Sherlock (or rather Johnlock, LBR) fandom. Kinklock, I hope you enjoy. Everyone else, I hope you enjoy as well.
> 
> Unbeta'd, unbritpicked. Fuck it, I had fun writing it! If you'd like to point out a mistake, feel more than free to do so!
> 
> Edit: Fixed the spelling to the British version lol. Also apparently I attributed the AU to the wrong person!! *dies*

Sherlock had had his murders. He had had London. He had had his cases and his danger and his arch enemies. He had had a landlady he had adored, and a few people who had helped him with the work. It had been alright, for a while. At least it hadn't been as awful as it could have been. As awful as it had been before. But slowly, and without warning, the cases had gotten utterly dull and repetitive and boring and repetitive and dull and honestly they had all started to blur together by the end. And to compound his problems, his procurer of body parts and his procurer of cases had gotten married--to each other, how repulsive--and seemed to have had less and less time for procuring him satisfactory examples either of their individual specialties. And really the arch enemies had stopped coming out of the woodwork altogether (though one of them still spied on him via CCTV, but it was terribly hard to shake Mycroft).

So when Mrs. Hudson had gone off to live permanently with her sister (her hip (he must visit soon)) and she had tearily told Sherlock he could have 221 Baker Street if he wanted it, well. He couldn't stomach the thought of living there alone, as much as he couldn't stomach looking for a tenant or, God forbid, a flatmate, after so many years of living relatively unperturbed. He had given the place over to the first deserving clients he had run across--a young couple, two intelligent young women who had been on the run from their families (some inheritance issue, dull). They had kept the wallpaper, judging from the frequent emails they sent him full of boring life updates about adoption papers. He had been worried they would want to change it (the wallpaper), and the fact that they hadn't led him to believe he'd made the right decision. Though the astonishing variety of atrocious too-small jumpers they knitted and sent him every year for Christmas were nearly enough to make him wish he had never met them. (He kept the jumpers in a corner of his closet and aired them out once in a while.)

So now Sherlock had Sussex, and a cottage with a fireplace. He had grey in his hair. He had tedious cases by email and the occasional interesting case a train ride away. And Sherlock had bees. It was alright. It wasn't as awful as it could have been.

***

Sherlock's neighbors suited him by being almost entirely absent. Only picturesque hills lay beyond his front garden, on the far side of the narrow lane the cottage was built on. His neighbors on one side were an egregiously elderly couple--a man and a woman who didn't seem to mind his bees pollinating their rather well-maintained and extravagant flower garden. They were friendly but not insufferably so. The cottage behind belonged to a family who most of the time lived elsewhere. Sherlock had spoken with the husband and wife before but had thankfully managed not to remember any of the details. 

The somewhat larger home (that really couldn't be considered a cottage anymore) on the opposite side from the gardening enthusiasts was almost always empty, except when a petite blonde woman in her late thirties came to mow the grass and trim the hedges and air out the furnishings and occasionally cheat on her wife. The house had belonged to... a great aunt or some such and had been left in her care. He could not help observing that the woman was an alcoholic, had had no less than five long-term affairs, had one sibling (a younger brother) who lived abroad, no longer spoke to her father (her mother had drunk herself into an early grave and she blamed him for not stopping her. Blamed him for not stopping herself from going down the same path), and had at least two cats. He genuinely could not help observing this. He would have rather not, but honestly, she made it all so transparent.

She always smiled tightly at him. 

***

The petite blonde woman had just recently turned forty (Trying to turn over a new leaf. Shaking like one, too. It wouldn't last. Particularly as her wife was thinking about finally leaving her) when she started bringing things to the house next door. Food and toiletries. More than the small amount needed for her intermittent visits. Sherlock had momentarily given her too much credit--thought she knew her wife was leaving her and was getting a head start on the moving-out process, but of course that wasn't the case. She thought she had been careful. Sherlock thought it must be difficult to be careful when one was functioning in a perpetual state of low-level inebriation. Also, he had caught a glimpse of men's body wash in one of the many bulging Tesco bags she had lugged from her car to the house. She didn't use men's grooming products. Either she was branching out in her affairs or a younger male member of her family was moving in. 

So her brother was moving in. Hm. Likely he would be just as awful, but it would at least spare Sherlock the agony of having to devote any remaining brain power to ignoring the petite blonde woman's oh so pedestrian indiscretions. God, he had been getting to the point where he would have drawn up the divorce papers for them himself to spare himself any more of her smug satisfaction at getting away with something she was _repeatedly failing_ to _actually_ get away with.

He made himself tea and stirred in a generous helping of the early spring-harvest honey. He sipped it at his kitchen sink and glowered out the side window at the petite blonde woman carrying things in and out of the house next door. There was no sense getting worked up about things. Yelling at the skull had long since stopped making him feel better.

***

The next day, the petite blonde woman rapped demandingly on his front door.

"I'm Harry," she said before he could say a word. "I know you know I own the place next door because you practically shoot laser beams from your eyes whenever I'm here. I could not give two shits what you think about me or my business. But my little brother is moving into that house tomorrow and so help me, you're not-- you're not gonna, I dunno, BOTHER him. Get me? No staring at him out your window, figuring all his shit out. No, I don't know, siccing your bees on him or whatever the fuck. And do not. DO NOT mention A-NY-THING about my-- my SHIT to him, okay?" She was glaring at him surprisingly steadily for someone just days off the sauce. "He needs me to be there for him right now and he won't let me be there if he knows."

Sherlock stared steadily back at her, trying not to be a little bit impressed. "He'll find out when your wife tells him." 

"Go fuck yourself, dickhead." She turned on her heel, marched to her car, and was off like a shot, kicking up dust all the way back to London.

Sherlock shut the front door and sashayed to the sitting room, smiling. Ah, how nostalgic. It had been quite a long time since someone had called him a dickhead and told him to go fuck himself.

***

That afternoon, Sherlock received in the post a care package from the Baker Street girls. In addition to a letter about their latest adventures, it contained sweets and biscuits, a few clippings from the London papers (which he had delivered directly already. But he was nonetheless always quite moved by the care that went into their choices of clippings--all grisly murders and semi-mysterious thefts. Those dear girls.), a box of herbal tea he was likely to bin, an eclectic few pages of sheet music, some odds and ends including a bird skull which they challenged him to identify (it had clearly once belonged to a carrion crow--they could have picked something less obvious), and a selection of gay pornography. He sighed and flipped through the small stack of discs. He had obviously shared far too many personal details with these girls. He passed one disc entitled "Twink Festival 4," and thought perhaps he had not shared _enough_ details if this were the sort of thing he was going to get from them. He tossed it over his shoulder into the kitchen, where it bounced off the wall and into the trash bin, and then returned his attention to the package. There were a few magazines in the mix as well, including a rather promising-looking one with a well-built man, halfway out of a set of army fatigues, smiling up at him from the cover. He bit his lip and flipped through it for a moment before setting it to one side. Promising indeed.

He ate a few of the biscuits and wandered about the cottage, poking at a few of his experiments which needed tending. He washed his hands and dried them carefully to remove the biscuit crumbs and gently pulled his violin from its case, and proceeded to draw out a few of the melodies from the sheet music the girls had sent him. He added some flourishes of his own where the music was boring and he danced slowly and unselfconsciously about the sitting room. The girls had said in their letter that they had been to visit Mrs Hudson (who had become fast friends with the two of them upon her failed attempt to surprise-visit Sherlock at the property she had gifted him. A few months after he had regifted it and moved out. He had neglected to mention it as he had thought it might upset her, but he had underestimated her again--she took the whole thing in stride), which was lovely. She would be ecstatic to meet the child when the papers finally went through for the girls. He put his violin back in its case and lied down on the sofa.

He got up and went to his bedroom to put on his pyjamas and dressing gown and then lied back down on the sofa. He rolled over to face the back of the sofa and tried not to breathe.

When he could no longer ignore it, he picked up the magazine and went to his bedroom. He took off all his clothes and lied down on his bed and flipped through the pages. Not every model was dressed in military garb, and certainly not all of them were to his taste. Still. He put the magazine down and pulled a small bottle of lubricant from his bedside table. He flipped through the pages and found a photo that he particularly liked--a full-body shot of a fit man in an unbuttoned dress uniform, collar askew, trousers pushed down and tight pants stretched across an impressive cock. Sherlock palmed his own gently. The man was draped enticingly over a faux-posh sofa. Brown hair, brown eyes. Not much evident personality, but a conventionally attractive face. Tall-ish. The model's boyfriend wanted him to give up this sort of modeling. Irrelevant. Sherlock propped the magazine up against the blanket and popped the cap up on the bottle and coated the fingers of his left hand with a thin layer of lubricant.

He let his eyes wander over the model, chewing on his lip as he imagined someone--not himself--pulling down those trousers the rest of the way, taking them off, following up with the pants, exposing the tip. He reached down past his cock and gently rubbed between his thighs, bringing his knees up. Going lower, he rubbed soft circles around his rim and gently pushed the tip of one slick finger inside. He pictured the man in the photo pushing those tight boxer briefs down past his balls, wriggling his hips, showing off, grinning. He imagined the man's cock, large and heavy and aching, and pushed a finger into himself, his own slim cock hardening as well. He added a second finger while imagining the man in the photo grabbing himself at the base of his cock and squeezing. Sherlock ran the fingertips of his right hand lightly over the head of his cock then moved down to cup his balls up out of the way. He rocked his fingers a bit inside himself and shivered, feeling the slick slide of them against the rim. He suddenly wanted more--he pushed a third finger inside and hissed, but pistoned his hips, moving the fingers in and out more roughly now. In his mind, the man from the magazine was wanking himself in time to the thrusts of Sherlock's own fingers, him lounging on that sofa, breathing hard and watching Sherlock fuck himself hard on his fingers. Sherlock pressed the fingertips of his right hand into his perineum and gripped tightly around the base of his cock with his thumb, moving the fingers of his left hand deep in and out, catching his prostate and causing him to leak precome on his belly with each thrust. 

And then, oh God, the man on the sofa was coming, all over his dress uniform and maybe spilling some on Sherlock as well, and Sherlock would lap it up off that uniform, and Sherlock was coming too, still fucking himself with his fingers and massaging his perineum with his other hand, and spurting over his belly. He massaged his prostate well through the end of his orgasm, eking out a few last dribbles of come to drip down the head. He stayed still for a moment when he was done, back still bowed up and his fingers firmly lodged in his arse, breathing heavily, gripping the base of his cock, his heart pounding. 

Slowly, he pulled his fingers out and flopped back in his bed. He wiped his hands on a nearby undershirt, then mopped up the mess on his belly as well. He tossed the shirt and the magazine both on the floor, then threw an arm up over his eyes and breathed slowly out. Honestly, was there anything sadder than a virgin in his late forties fucking himself on his own fingers to get off to a picture in a porn mag? He really couldn't think of anything. Was it possible for him to get any more pathetic?

After a while, he got up and took a shower and made himself supper.

***

Harry's little brother moved in the next day. Harry herself was nowhere to be seen. Judging by her protective speech the day before, she would have wanted to help get him settled, so the wife must have told him everything. He must like the wife. Or dislike Harry's bad behavior.

The first good look Sherlock got of Harry's brother was through his kitchen window. The man was standing at the kerb, freshly out of a cab, looking skeptically at his sister's house which he was to be living in (temporarily?). Sherlock observed several facts about him. He was in his early thirties. He was a soldier, recently invalided home from Afghanistan (or possibly Iraq, but more likely Afghanistan). He had a limp and walked with a cane, but it was psychosomatic--the actual injury was to his shoulder (left one?). He had blonde hair, just starting to go prematurely grey. He could pack everything he owned into a single rucksack. His eyes were tired but his face was open and expressive and he was _gorgeous_.

 _Oh,_ he thought. _Oh, no._


End file.
